


Dragon Kin: Beginnings

by Evil_is_Relative



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_is_Relative/pseuds/Evil_is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nameless girl on the run from those who raised her winds up in Skyrim, trussed up in the back of a wagon on the way to an execution. At least, until a legend gives her a reason to go on and see the world anew. One-shot. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragon Kin: Beginnings

               She woke slowly, but didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t know where she was, or what was happening, so her training took over. Be still, silent, and take in as much as you can. Assess the situation as thoroughly as you could before your captors knew you were aware of them. If you were very lucky, and could catch them by surprise, you might be able to kill them and get away. If not, at least take them with you.

               Old habits die hard, after all.

               She was in a cart or wagon of some kind; that much was obvious. It was wood, with unsanded benches lining either side parallel with the road, judging by the direction she swayed as they went over uneven ground. There were men around her. They weren’t talking, but she could tell by the heavy way they breathed. By the smell of unwashed clothing and sweat, they were not noble. From the accompanying tang of metal, and the faint jingle of chain and clink of plate, they were soldiers of some kind, or bandits who were prosperous enough to get their hands on metal armor rather than rotting, lice-infested fur.

               One off to her right started muttering about horses and Imperials. That was odd; most people just referred to the Imperials as “the soldiers,” or “the army.” That meant she wasn’t in Cyrodiil anymore. What way had she been headed? She didn’t keep much track except to ensure she didn’t stray too close to either Thalmor territory or Black Marsh. The Temple of Kynareth she had been patched up in had been in the mountains, so she was in the north. The amount the wagon dipped and tilted told her that she was probably still in the mountains.

               Wait, hadn’t there been something going on in the north? Some kind of rebellion? Admittedly, other than to wryly note that such an event would make the Thalmor giddy as a Khajiit with a bowl of moonsugar, she hadn’t thought much about the news. It didn’t matter to her; she wasn’t involved.

               The wagon hit a particularly deep rut in the road and bounced them all over. A splinter lodged itself through the thin fabric of whatever it was she was wearing and right into her rear. She grimaced and couldn’t stop the hiss of pain that escaped her lips.

               “Hey, you,” someone said, and she winced, glad her hair covered her face well enough to let her get her expression under control before she looked up. “You’re finally awake.”

               She looked up warily, fitting an expression of blurry confusion on her face as she peeked through the shoulder-length red strands that framed her odd, triangular face. The man that spoke was a Nord, judging by his massive shoulders and thick shock of yellow hair. His blue eyes were kind, and weary. He reminded her strongly of the mercenary Sor, who had been kind to her and her mother before...A bloom of regret blossomed in her heart and she stomped it down.

               “You were trying to cross the border, right?” he asked, and she realized quickly that she must have blundered right into Skyrim. Perhaps she should start carrying a map rather than simply heading in the opposite direction whenever she encountered swampland or wood elves. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

               “Damn you, Stormcloaks,” the thief in question said, his tone filled with rancor, “Skyrim was fine before you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If it wasn’t for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now. You there,” the man said to her. “You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

               “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the Nord replied. She tried not to roll her eyes at the thought that being prisoners somehow made them the same—though in a sense, she supposed it was true—and examined the last member of their quartet in binds. It was an older Nord, richly dressed, and for some unfathomable reason he was gagged. He gazed at the thief with narrowed eyes, as if he couldn’t believe he was being transported with such a person, then gave her a sharp glance. She returned his scrutiny—if he wasn’t going to bother hiding that he was evaluating her, she wasn’t either. Some of the scorn left his expression when he looked at her face, and she spared a moment to wonder why. Suddenly uncomfortable, she lifted her bound hands and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

               Whoever had bound them, they either knew how to tie a really good knot, or had no idea what they were doing, because the thing was so complicated she couldn’t even begin to wriggle out, and she had started learning knots when she was six. Among other things.

               The thief opened his mouth to protest when the guard holding the reigns told them rudely to shut it. Apparently a rather chatty individual, the thief instead looked to the richly dressed Nord and asked, “What’s wrong with him, huh?”

               “Watch your tongue!” the blond Nord snapped, “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”

               “Ulfric?” the thief repeated, frowning, “Jarl of Windhelm? The leader of the rebellion. But if they’ve captured you…oh gods, where are they taking us?” he asked in undisguised horror.

               “I don’t know where we’re going,” the blond Nord replied, the heaviness of inevitability weighing down his tone, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

               “No, this can’t be happening,” the thief said, his eyes wide with shock and denial. “This isn’t happening!” The girl just stared at him, at once both sympathizing with his words and feeling a deep sense of scorn for his having said them. She looked away, down at her binds. They were troublesome, but the forest around them was thick. They wouldn’t stop her if she wanted to escape. All she needed to do was stand, hop over the side of the wagon and disappear into the foliage. With the leader of the rebellion in the same caravan, they were hardly going to stop and search for _her_ for very long. They might leave a few men behind for formality’s sake, but not very many. If she could sneak up behind one she could strangle him with those very bindings before he even had a chance to call out, and have equipment and a disguise to boot. It would be easy.

               But what was the point?

               “Hey,” the Nord said, recapturing her attention before she sank into a state worse than the thief’s, “What village are you from, horse thief?”

               “Why do you care?” he asked sullenly. She wanted to kick him.

               “A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” the man said, and she stared at him, eyes wide. Home? What a ridiculous, foreign concept. A place you could be safe. A place you could return to and be welcomed. The closest she’d ever had was the place that trained her, and she’d never felt safe there for a moment.

               “Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.”

               “What about you?” he asked, looking at her. The thief stared down at his hands, gaze dull and shocky, but the Jarl’s keen gaze was on her, and she knew her hopeless expression hadn’t gone unnoticed.

               “Nowhere,” she rasped, then licked her lips, turning away. “I’m not from anywhere.”

               He misunderstood, his eyes lighting up with realization, “You’re one of the war orphans, aren’t you?” he asked, full of sympathy.

               She shrugged. That was as good an explanation as any. Certainly better than the truth. “War born,” she embellished, and he had the grace to flush and look away. The Imperial legion had needed to put down any number of small rebellions since the end of the Great War, and children born of soldiers who then left the local woman they had slept with, or died in battle, were an unfortunate side effect of this. Usually they were placed in orphanages, but sometimes—if, say, they were the result of rape—they were left to fend for themselves.

               She was young, obviously wandering, and wearing rags. Chances were, as war born, she was the latter case.

               Uncomfortable silence reigned for a few moments as they approached a town. Compared to the ancient structures she had been raised around, it was crude at best, but it certainly was sturdy.

               “General Tulius, sir, the headsman is waiting!” someone called from the walls, and she sighed in resignation. She could still escape, as long as they were outside the walls but…she had more in common with war born than she had initially realized, now that she actually bothered to think about them. There was no point in running—she’d always be running away, not to. There was nowhere to go, no one to miss her. What was the point? Her family had discarded her, what friends she had ever made had always betrayed her. Dull, gloomy despondency grew within her. She was tired of running. Just…let it be over.

 _If you let yourself die,_ whispered a tiny spark inside her, _you’ll never find what you’ve been searching for. You’ll stop running, yes, but you will never have belonged anywhere._

               She almost snorted. _As if someone like me could ever_ belong _anywhere._  

               The blond said something about Thalmor, and she tensed involuntarily, glancing up. They were there, all right. Bright and tall on impeccably bred horses, surveying the line of the impending doomed with their usual overweening pomposity. Humans were less than they, of course. Once, she had thought them less that her, for while her father was also a Nord, captured in the aforementioned wars, her grandfather was Altmer, and while his blood still flowed through her veins she would never be as low as the humans they sought to rule.

               For a moment she considered calling out. She still knew the signs—they would save her on some pretense. But then they would send her back to her grandfather, and it would begin again. Actually, it would probably be worse. She had disobeyed the last direct order he gave her. He might just kill her, too, but only after he had wrung what use he could out of her. Actually, she was old enough that he might just breed her and be done with her.

               No point in that, either, then.  

               “This is Helgen,” the blond said unexpectedly, and she glanced back to him. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here,” he added, surprising her with the undercurrent of pain in his voice. She wondered briefly what had happened there, though if this were a city with such a strong Imperial presence, and he was a rebel, she could guess. “I wonder if she’s still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.” He glanced around and scoffed, a touch of self-mockery in his tone, “Funny; when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

 _Not me,_ she thought, watching a little boy as his father ordered him into the house. He looked to be about ten or eleven. She’d watched plenty of executions by that age, including that of her own father, although she’d only been told who he was after the fact. She wasn’t even entirely sure which of the four Nords hanged that day had actually been the one bred to her mother. Her grandfather had seemed to relish making her witness it, though.

 _“See now, Young One”_ he had said, _“I’m the only kin you have left. You owe blood allegiance to me and none else. Blood rules all; you’d do well to remember it.”_

               The wagon pulled up to a wall and stopped with a jarring halt that sent that splinter further into her posterior. She winced, wondering irrelevantly if imminent death made everyone think about their past like this. There really wasn’t all that much to think on, though.

               “Why are we stopping?” the thief asked.

               “Why do you think?” the Nord asked, his tone holding none of the scorn such a stupid question warranted. “End of the line.” He seemed to gather himself and stood, surprising her by standing tall and proud. “Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

               The thief looked about frantically. “No, wait! We’re not rebels!” he cried, and she was even more surprised to note that he was including her. By all accounts he should just be trying to save his own hide, not bothering to mention her.

               “Face your death with some courage, thief,” the blond told him. “The child has more dignity than you.”

               She scowled at him for calling her a child, and despite everything it brought a ghost of a smile to his face.

               “You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you!” the smaller Nord begged him as they jumped down from the back of the wagon. “This is a mistake!”

               “Step toward the block when we call your name!” yelled a woman in officer armor. She had a pinched face and brown hair. “One at a time!” she snapped, as if people were rushing.

               “Empire loves their dammed lists,” the blond growled.

               “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” the Imperial soldier who had the misfortune as acting as clerk for the day said, making a mark on the parchment he held. The man with the sharp eyes strode forward proudly, and she couldn’t help but admire him and the blond in that moment.

               “It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” the blond told him. She glanced up at him; he seemed to be more upset about the jarl’s execution than his own.

               “Ralof of Riverwood,” the impromptu clerk read, something in his voice catching her attention. She looked at him closer, only to note that he, too, was a Nord, though his coloring was closer to Imperial. The men’s eyes met briefly, and she realized that they knew each other, somehow. There was anger in that exchange, anger and grief and conviction. Then Ralof turned away, following Ulfric to the block. The clerk’s eyes closed briefly, then opened on the list.

               “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

               Lokir was in a full panic, she could tell. “No!” he cried, stumbling forward. “I’m not a rebel; you can’t do this!”

               “Halt!” the woman yelled as he continued forward, as if someone in that mental state would listen.

               “You’re not going to kill me!” he cried, and she watched in disbelief as he raced past the pair and down the road, as if he had any chance of escape. Predictably enough, he was felled by half a dozen arrows long before he was out of sight. Gazing at his pitiful, arrow-pierced form, she was surprised to feel a welling of pity for him. Horse theft was hardly a beheading offense, unless one had been caught at it several times, or they happened to steal a horse from the wrong noble. Lokir should have languished in a military work camp for the next seven months: He was right, he shouldn’t have been there.

               The woman turned back, “Anyone else feel like running?” she mocked them, and the girl tensed at the tone. They weren’t going to live out the morning; there was no reason to be a bitch about it.

               “Wait,” the clerk said, his eyes falling on her and widening. “You there, step forward,” he directed. Since she was the only one left, she walked the five paces between them, looking them both over as they did the same. The woman was still wearing the scowl she had worn from the moment Lokir ran off, but the man looked doubtful. “Who are you?” he asked her.

               She thought a moment. That was a difficult question to answer, and for a moment she tried to imagine what they saw. She was scrawny, in comparison with Nords, and short in comparison with the Altmer, closer in height to that Imperial grandmother she’d heard so much about. Her shoulder-length red hair was the color of drying blood, and her eyes…well, she’d honestly never seen anything with a violet that matched her eyes, other than her own mother. She was annoyingly distinct for a Young One, a human of Altmer blood raised and groomed to be a spy in human lands. Still, Young One she was, so she had never had a name.

               The supercilious officer cleared her throat.

               “Noyoki,” she finally decided. It was fitting enough, a name that meant there was no name. Throughout the ages that word had graced elven tombs of fallen, unnamed soldiers and victims. She’d done enough for her grandfather’s people to deserve that, she thought.

               “You…” he hesitated, glancing down at the list. “You’re…how old are you?” he asked, and it finally dawned on her that this was what had been bothering the men in the wagons.

               “Fifteen,” she guessed. Maybe younger. Certainly no older.

               He looked even more doubtful, “They let you become a Stormcloak that young?” he asked, sounding slightly shocked.

               She shrugged, “I wouldn’t know. I crossed the border without papers.”

               His waving brown hair swayed as he glanced between her and the Captain. “And they brought you _here?”_ The gaze he turned on the woman was slightly beseeching. “Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.”

               “Forget the list. She goes to the block,” the woman said, glancing her up and down.

               “She’s not a rebel,” he hissed in an undertone, “and she’s not even old enough to join the Imperial army! She’s _barely_ old enough to join the reserves!”

               The woman glared at him. “She’s obviously a thief and a vagabond. The border guards brought her here, and that’s good enough for me.”

               “Captain!” he sounded shocked and sick, but the woman gave him one final glare and walked off. He turned back to her, his expression holding so much anguish she wondered what else must be bothering him. Certainly her unjust decapitation wasn’t worth that much grief to a total stranger. “I’m very sorry. I’ll see your remains are returned to…are you a Breton?” he asked, obviously unable to tell.

               “My father was a Nord, so they tell me,” she answered truthfully. At his questioning look, she supplied her newest background story. “War orphan.”

               She was sorry she said it when he looked as if she had punched him in the gut. “I’m very sorry,” he said again. “At least you get to die in your father’s homeland,” he added, and she wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to comfort, her or himself.

               “Hey,” she said, surprising him—and herself—with a small, wan smile. He just looked so miserable. “Don’t worry about me. It isn’t like you’ll make my mother cry or anything. Just forget me.”

               He shook his head. “Your face will probably haunt me the rest of my life,” he said lowly as he turned away, and she gathered that she wasn’t supposed to hear it, but she had the Altmer’s hearing. Bewildered and a bit saddened at his continued grief for her sake, she followed, thinking that at least she would die having chosen a name, even if it wasn’t one she would have wanted.

               “Ulfric Stormcloak,” a man in General armor was saying as she walked over, “some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to kill his king and usurp his throne.” She stopped, watching and wondering what “the Voice” was, besides obviously the reason why this particular prisoner, and no other, was gagged. “You started this war and plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”

               At that moment, a strange, loud noise echoed through the sky, and everyone—Imperial, rebel, and otherwise—looked up and around, wondering what it was. Her stomach dropped, and her heart started racing with a strange, foreign excitement.

               “What was that?” someone asked.

               “It’s nothing,” the General answered, though she could see his hands shake before he curled them into fists. This was an important execution, after all, and was probably going to be a highlight of his career.  “Carry on.”

               “Yes, General Tulius!” the Captain said respectfully, and Noyoki tried very hard not to roll her eyes. The woman was a militant version of a sycophant, uncreative in her duties and willing to shoot down a man who should be sentenced to manual labor, and murder a child that (as far as she knew) had just wandered in the wrong direction rather than disrupt the General’s moment of triumph. As the Captain turned toward another woman and demanded they be given their last rights, Noyoki decided that she strongly disliked the woman, and, if given a chance, would rid the world of her.

               The priestess stepped forward and began the rights, but a rebel even more impatient to be dead than she was walked forward and knelt before the block, claiming that he didn’t have all morning. She thought that was rather gutsy of him, but was glad to note that the headsman was strong, and his ax sharp enough to sever the man’s head easily—she would hate to have an executioner that had to saw at her a little in order to kill her.

               “You Imperial bastards!” a Stormcloak woman cried passionately.

               “Justice!” yelled someone else.

               “Death to the Stormcloaks!” a woman in Imperial armor snapped at them.

               “As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof said sorrowfully off to her right. She glanced at him, but didn’t comment.

               “Next,” the officious Captain ordered, “the…” she obviously didn’t know what Noyoki was, but she was looking right at her, “the Breton in rags!”

               The strange roaring came again, and everyone paused. Her heart began to beat faster, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the primordial cry, or from being summoned to the headsman’s block. She was starting to regret not leaping over the side of the wagon, but it was too late now. She wondered if, perhaps, she wouldn’t want to go down fighting, even if she was tired of it.

               “There it is again,” the clerk said uncertainly.

               The Captain glared at him, and Noyoki gathered that she didn’t like him much—probably because he had an original thought or two in his head—“I said, next prisoner!”

               The man sighed and looked back at her. “To the block prisoner, nice and easy.”

               She walked forward, catching out of the corner of her eye General Tulius glancing at her from his self-appointed task of glaring at the rebel leader only to do a double-take. “Captain, is that a child?” he asked as the woman grew impatient of watching her mince away from the corpse they hadn’t bothered to move and put her foot in the middle of Noyoki’s back to shove her against the blood-covered wooden rest. She couldn’t help but notice that, despite the number of ax marks in it, it was much smoother than the bench of the wagon that had brought them there.

               “It’s a criminal,” the Captain replied.

               Whatever might have happened next was cut off by another cry—much closer. “What in Oblivion is that?” someone yelled.

               “Sentries, what do you see?” the Captain asked, but her answer came when a giant, black winged beast landed on the tower above them, gazing down with baleful amusement. The scrape of metal against metal rang across the courtyard as the soldiers all drew their weapons, cries of “Dragon!” fighting for supremacy over the screams of the townspeople. For a moment, it was a standoff, with the soldiers staring at the dragon, and the great beast staring back.

               Then it opened its mouth and a great sound came forth, teasing the back of her understanding. The sky erupted into clouds, and great flaming boulders came streaming down. The headsman fell forward, and she had an unobstructed view of the beast for a moment.

               He glanced down, then halted, his eyes meeting hers. That tiny, persistent spark blazed, and she felt a strange sense of connection, unlike anything in her experience. The red eyes narrowed, the black scales around them tightening, and the maw opened again in a bark of that strange, unfamiliar word. A wall of force hit her like a battering ram and she was blasted away from the block, fighting against unconsciousness as everything around her swirled and blurred. Her hearing was oddly muffled, and she shook her head rapidly several times to clear it.

               “Girl!” a voice called, and she looked up to see a form she thought was Ralof gazing down at her. “Hurry, girl. We won’t get another chance. This way!”

               He pulled her to her feet, his bindings magically gone, and they stumbled into a nearby tower, someone slamming the door behind them. Several wounded Stormcloak soldiers lay on the floor, but the noble man she had sat beside in the cart stood upright, gazing at them stoically as her helper lowered her onto a pile of straw. “I’m alright,” she said, rubbing her eyes to get them to work correctly. Ralof patted her shoulder, apparently thinking she was crying.

               “Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?” he asked.

               “Legends don’t burn down villages,” he replied steadily, and Noyoki wondered what was so great about his voice. It seemed normal to her; certainly not anything one could use to kill with.

               “Could someone untie me, please?” she asked politely, holding out her wrists. She couldn’t help but notice that she was the only one still bound.

               Ralof bounded back over to her and tugged at the ropes for several moments, cursing. “No good. We’ll have to wait until we find something with an edge.”

               “We’ll get out, child, don’t worry,” the Jarl assured her absently.

               “I’m not a child!” she snapped, and he gazed at her in surprise a moment, then grinned slightly.

               “Perhaps not, but you look a great deal like one,” he replied, and she groaned. Outside, the dragon roared, shaking the stones of the tower, and he once more became all business. “We need to move, now!” he shouted.

               “Up through the tower,” Ralof suggested, pulling her to her feet, “Let’s go!” He half led her, half dragged her up the stairs, then cried out and stumbled back as the wall exploded inward, followed by a great black head. Once again, Noyoki swore the dragon looked right at her, amusement evident in his face, before he blasted fire at her and returned to wreaking havoc on those outside.

               “That thing aimed at us!” Ralof exclaimed, back pressed firmly against the large section of wall they had ducked behind.

               “It’s aiming at everyone,” Noyoki replied, heading over to peer through the wall. The devastation was unbelievable, and for a moment she shuddered, imagining what the Thalmor would do to get their hands on any beast that could do this to a town within a matter of minutes. One thing was for sure; there was about to be a lot of Altmeri and Imperial scrutiny on Skyrim.

               Ralof glanced up the tower, then out the hole. “See the inn on the other side?” he said, pointing.

               “I think I’d have to be blind to miss that,” she said, fear and that strange, elated little spark within her giving her tongue freer access than she normally would.

               He ignored her insolence, “Jump through the roof and keep going.” She gave him an incredulous look and he scooped her up and tossed her over as she squeaked in surprise. “Go! We’ll follow when we can! It’s okay; you can do it!”

               She hit the second floor of the inn and rolled, taking a moment to glance about before deciding that a wooden structure with a thatched roof was nowhere to be when a fire-breathing monster was on the loose.

               Fire-breathing monster…

               Noyoki sighed. “I am an idiot,” she muttered, setting her bindings aflame as fire surrounded her hands. She hadn’t used her magic for much since…since her last assignment, but she should have thought of this before. Freed, she hopped down through a hole in the floor just as the dragon flew over. The sad man with the list was yelling at the boy from earlier, who rushed toward them. Noyoki slipped past the Imperial and the iron-clad man with him, heading down the lane when the dragon landed, not looking at her this time, but at the boy.

               “Haming get over here!” the soldier yelled frantically.

               Noyoki didn’t think. She launched herself at the child, tackling him and rolling into the side of the building as fire burst just behind and above them. The man joined them as soon as the dragon took off. “Still alive, prisoner?” he asked, helping her and the boy to their feet. “Stick with me if you want to stay that way,” he turned to the other man with him, “Take care of the boy. I have to find General Tulius and join in the defense.”

               “Gods guide you, Hadvar,” the old man said, and Noyoki wondered why, if everyone thought she was such a child, she wasn’t being left with the old man and the boy, but followed Hadvar anyway, because somehow staying still didn’t seem like a good idea, either.

               They had only run a few hundred feet when the dragon swooped toward them. “Stay close to the wall!” Hadvar ordered, and she complied, blinking when a large, membranous wing curled over the wall right in front of her, and the dragon sent another peal of fire right where they would have been had they kept running, incinerating an archer where he stood, useless arrowhead falling to the ground with a clink.

               They were off again the moment it took off, weaving through houses and around rubble. Noyoki hung back when they emerged from what remained of a house to see the man talking to the General, but he quickly ran back to her. “It’s you and me, girl; stay close,” he said, heading off again.

               Noyoki followed, nearly tripping over a white-haired woman dying in the street. A glance at her stomach shone flesh so burnt her insides were trying to come out. The woman was gasping in pain, gazing up at her desperately with wide eyes glazed with shock and pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, hesitating. “This is all I can do for you.” Reaching down, she grasped the woman’s head in both hands and wrenched it around, breaking her neck. Everyone around her ignored them, just as they had ignored the dying woman, which for some reason made Noyoki slightly ill. She had killed before—it was part of her training. But no training in the world prepared one for this. This…was hell.

               Crossing under an arch, she saw that Hadvar had stopped, staring coldly at none other than Ralof. “Ralof, you dammed traitor. Out of my way!”

               “We’re escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof said, and Noyoki rolled her eyes that they had decided _now_ was the right time to play out their issues, running past both of them when the dragon swooped down and lifted an archer right off the wall, dropping him, screaming, from a height greater than that of any tower in the town.

               Time to get back inside.

               Ducking into a door, she found herself in a barracks. Noyoki gazed at the beds longingly for a moment before the door opened and Hadvar entered, shaking his head. “Looks like we’re the only ones who made it,” he said, shooting a fearful look at the door. “Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the end times?”

               “It certainly wasn’t a mammoth,” Noyoki replied, heading over to a table with some coins on it. She quickly took possession of them.

               Hadvar shook his head again. “You have a smart mouth, girl.”

               “I was almost killed for no reason, then almost killed because an overgrown lizard likes to set things on fire,” she pointed out, turning to put a hand on her hip. “Excuse me if I’m a bit tetchy.”

               Infuriatingly, he chuckled, “You’re going to be trouble when you grow up,” he said, and she realized that the sweat from their escape had made the baggy tunic cling to her a bit, showing what she had been trying to tell them all along; she was no child. Though she wasn’t sure anymore that she wanted them thinking of her like a woman, either. Being “a woman” had already gotten her into enough trouble in her short life.

               She started going through the chests at the base of the beds, looking for a spare uniform. She found one, and glared at Hadvar until he got the idea that she wanted to change. He turned and cleared his throat. “You any good with a sword?” he asked.

               “Short swords, yes, but I’m better with a dagger,” she replied, tugging on a pair of boots two sizes too big. Still, they were the smallest she could find, and fit well enough with her foot wraps shoved into the toes. Using the rags she had just pulled off, she wiped the blood of the block off her face and hair, tugging the red strands back and tying them with a leather strip.

               “Learn that on the streets?” he asked, giving her a once-over as if wondering what she had done to survive all these years.

               “Perfected it there,” she replied, looking him right in the eye.

               He sighed, looking sad again. She was starting to wonder if it was his default expression. “You were right,” he said, returning her look levelly, “Despite what you look like, you’re not a child.”

               “Thank you. Shall we go?”

               “We should keep moving,” he agreed, handing her an iron sword, “That thing is still out there.” He hesitated. “Why were you really arrested?”

               “No papers,” she replied with a shrug. “I didn’t even know I was close to the border when I crossed it. Generally, I try to avoid them, but…”

               He looked relieved, “So you’re not a criminal, then.”

               “No,” she replied. It was sort of the truth; she’d never been charged with anything, anyway.

               “Let’s go,” he urged decisively, heading further inside the keep. She followed, hefting the sword awkwardly as she got the feel for it. If a Thalmor blacksmith had made something that badly balanced, he would have been whipped. No wonder they lost the war.

               “We need to get moving. That dragon is tearing up the whole keep!” a man said somewhere before them.

               “Just give me a minute,” a woman replied. “I’m out of breath.”

               “Hear that?” Hadvar asked, glancing past a portcullis. “Stormcloaks. I wonder if we can reason with them.”

               “I doubt it,” Noyoki replied, following him inside. Just as she predicted, as soon as the pair saw their armor, they attacked.

               Noyoki ducked as the man swung a giant double-handed sword at her, lifting her badly-made iron blade to block. It shattered. She gazed up, wide-eyed, as the man came at her again, and rolled out of the way, ending up against the wall with nowhere to go. The Stormcloak lifted his sword again, and she shrieked, holding out both hands and summoning the meager fire magic all of her grandfather’s bloodline possessed.

               The spark inside flared again, and fire bloomed from her palms as bright and strong as from one of her legitimate kinsman’s. It flickered up her arms, surrounding her body and lifting her hair from its tail.

               The soldier screamed in agony and went up in a rush of heat and light.

               “Noyoki!” Hadvar cried, rushing over, then stopping, staring dumbly at her as she gazed down at herself. Fire swirled around her steadily. “A Flame Cloak? You never told me you were a mage,” he said, almost accusingly.

               “I…it’s never come so strong,” she replied, bewildered. She didn’t even know the Flame Cloak spell. “Not since…” the girl trailed off, not wanting to think about the only time her fire magic had exploded into life, the one other time she had really, truly needed it.

               “Your eyes are glowing,” he said, sounding somewhat frightened.

               “Really?” she asked, glancing back up at him. The walls trembled then, and they glanced up in unison as dust sifted down from the ceiling.

               “We should keep moving,” Hadvar noted, leading her down yet another hall while keeping a wide berth from the orange and red lights caressing her. “You should probably head to one of the mage societies when this is over,” he said finally.

               “What?” she asked, thoughts on the dragon more than the sudden emergence of her hereditary power. She could think more on that later, when she had the luxury of time to deal with the conflicting emotions it brought. Her grandfather would have been so pleased—elated, really—if she had shown this level of ability when she was with him. He never would have traded her away, never sent her to the Imperial Province. She might even have been brought into the legitimate family fold.

               “I don’t know much about magic, but suddenly getting stronger can’t be normal. Well, it isn’t in anything I know, anyway.”

               “I’ll do that,” she said, half meaning it. “Though I am at the right age for it to emerge, if it was ever going to.” Actually, she was a bit old, but her words seemed to make him feel marginally better.

               Rumbling shook the keep again, strong enough to halt them both in their tracks. “Look out!” Hadvar cried, and they both jumped back as the ceiling collapsed just ahead of them. “Damn! That dragon doesn’t give up easy.” Rubbing the back of his neck for a moment, he pointed to the door to their left. “An old storeroom. Perhaps we can find some potions and supplies in there.”

               “Will there be food?” she asked hopefully.

               “How can you even think about food at a time like this?” he asked, opening the door.

               “Says a man who must never have gone hungry,” she muttered, entering.

               “Yaaarrrggg!” shouted yet another Nord, coming at her swinging a greatsword. She charred the flesh from his bones before he landed a single hit, though she did need to dodge around a bit. Hadvar was looking at her impassively, but she saw in his eyes that he was troubled.

               “The last one shattered my sword,” she explained uncomfortably, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

               He nodded, “Let’s just see what we can find.”

               “Do Nords have a problem with mages, or something?” she demanded, growing angry at him.

               He hesitated. “A bit.”

               “Oh,” she said, deflating. “Well, stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”

               “Perhaps not on purpose. I suppose you can’t feel it, but being near you is a bit like sitting near a bonfire,” he informed her.

               “Oh,” she repeated, then resolutely turned to stripping the room of everything useful.

               “Finished?” he asked after watching her a moment.

               “I think so. Hey, if I’m so hot, how come I can’t cook this rabbit leg I’m holding?” she demanded, gazing at the raw meat petulantly.

               Hadvar unbent enough to chuckle, descending further into the keep, then sobered abruptly. “The torture room. Gods, I wish we didn’t need to go through here.”

               The sounds of fighting broke out, and they began running. A pair of Stormcloaks were fighting a pair of Imperials, although it seemed only one of the Empire’s men was actually fighting. Noyoki sent a jet of flame at the nearest attacker, and when he yelled in pain and surprise, Hadvar finished him. The other Imperial ran the second through moments later.

               “You fellows happened along just in time,” the man said smoothly, and Noyoki’s hackles rose at the sound of his voice; honeyed and assured, with a hint of cruel pleasure. “These boys seemed a bit upset at how I’ve been entertaining their comrades.”

               Hadvar looked at him in disgust. “Don’t you even know what’s been going on? A dragon is attacking Helgen!”

               “A dragon,” the torturer scoffed. “Please. Don’t make up nonsense.”

               Noyoki sighed, spotting a knapsack on the table and going over to investigate. It held a couple of lockpicks, an empty mead bottle, and some lint. On the table in front of it was a black book with an Imperial seal. Curious, she lifted the cover. The Book of the Dragonborn. That wasn’t something she’d ever heard of before. She put it into the sack for later, then went over to the only cell that held anything. A dead mage was inside, along with several septims and a spell tome. Pulling out a lockpick, she opened the lock with appalling ease considering it was a prison cell and collected what she could.

               “Oh, sure,” the torturer said behind her. “Take _all_ my things.”

               She didn’t reply as she scampered by him, noting the tome was for Sparks before shoving it in her knapsack. It wasn’t lost on her that the torturer’s assistant went with them. The man stared at her for a long while as they passed into another room peppered with skeleton filled cages, an expression on his face that made her vaguely ill.

               “Who’s this then?” he asked, lifting a lock of her hair and letting it slide through his fingers. Hadvar turned to see the girl had frozen, face pale. Her hand was clutching one of the daggers she had picked up, but she seemed too petrified to move, let alone use it. “I didn’t know we had any new recruits with us,” the assistant went on, tilting the girl’s chin up to get a better look at her face. Rather than backing off when he saw her expression, he grinned. “What’s your name, Greenie? No need to be scared; I only torture traitors.”

               “Back off!” Hadvar snapped. “She’s only borrowing that uniform; she’s too young to join.”

               The assistant jumped back as if she had caught fire again. “My apologies,” he said, sounding genuinely contrite.

               “Perhaps you should go convince your master to leave, as well,” Hadvar said. From the look on his face, it wasn’t a suggestion. The assistant muttered something, but glanced at her and relented. The Imperial soldier walked over and put a light hand on her shoulder. She jumped. “Hey,” he said softly, frowning, “what happened to you?”

               She seemed to shake it off with admirable—and slightly worrying—ease. “Nothing,” she said, then glanced at him and sighed. “I’ve just had a run in or two with…lecherous old men.”

               His stomach dropped, and it was a moment before he could speak. “Did you report them?” he asked, seriously afraid the answer would be “no,” and the beasts were still out there.

               “I killed them,” she replied. “Well, the first one. A…friend killed the second.”

               “What happened to the friend?” he asked.

               “He…left,” she said after a moment. “We’re wasting time.” Resolutely, she strode forward, up through a hole in the wall and down a tunnel, only to stop dead and raise a hand in warning to Hadvar. He glanced around the corner and cursed, ducking back.

               “There’s too many,” he murmured. “We’re going to have to turn back.” Abruptly, he leaned away from her, “You’re giving off heat, again,” he warned her.

               Noyoki trembled with holding in the miasma of emotions roiling inside her. Staying stoic had never been so hard, save once, and that memory made her feel as if she were about to burst. “Stay here a moment,” she advised in a voice that only shook slightly as she slid the pack from her back and handed it to him. “I’m going to try something.”

               With that, she headed in before the man could protest. The room was half-cavern, with walkways built around the perimeter and a stream running through the center. Half a dozen Stormcloaks rushed her. She took a moment to ensure none of them was someone she knew, and closed her eyes, letting herself feel the same fear the torturer’s assistant had briefly reawakened. It had to come out sometime, she knew, and the longer she held it in the worse it would be.

               Noyoki summoned the images of her upbringing. The years of training and brutality. Her mother’s death, Sor’s anguished face as they punished her for trying to escape with him, and his swift dispatchment moments later.

               The dragon’s red eyes flashed through her mind, that strange feeling of familiarity and terror that had swept through her. The hopelessness she had felt mere moments before that.

               The sight of her new husband coming toward her bed, after her grandfather had traded her to him a year ago. His face as he touched her hair, reminding her through chapped, curling lips that she was his duchess now, and she had responsibilities. A wife had responsibilities.

               That did it.

               Now, as then, flame rushed forward, erupting from her as if she were the Red Mountain itself. It engulfed her attackers before they even had time to realize what was happening. Her eyes glowed raw, bright violet, her blood boiled, and she felt, for the second time, as if great wings rose from her shoulders rather than puny, pale little arms. That she was strong, and fearless, and meant to dominate. She could rule this world and all the foolish, petty beings that inhabited it.

               The face of the dragon flashed before her eyes again, and the fire faded into the blackness of his wings.

 

 

               Hadvar waited. It felt as if he had been waiting forever. No one had come to join him, but the noise above had stopped. Behind him, he was sure, was nothing.

               Before him, it had been too blistering hot to go on.

               Finally, the natural coolness of the caves leached the heat from the air, though a faint shimmer could still be seen several inches from any surface. For the first time since the little mage girl had gone in, he peered around the corner.

               The room was partially obscured by steam. The sound of running water told him that there was a stream that ran through here—probably the secondary water source for the keep in case of attack. The stones and rock were blackened, and here and there charred pieces of armor and weaponry showed where the Stormcloaks had been. He was surprised—he felt the fire had been more than hot enough to melt the weapons, but then, he was no blacksmith.

               The mage girl lay across a little bridge. Her uniform was in tatters, but her skin was still pale and unburned. Hesitantly, he held a hand over her, but no heat rose from her flesh. Gingerly, he felt for a pulse. It was erratic and faint, but there.

               She groaned, and he had to fight the urge to leap away from her. Violet eyes blinked open and looked up at him confusedly. It was the most childlike he had ever seen her, and he reminded himself forcefully that she was barely more than that.

               The thought, rather than reassuring him, set a cold lump of ice in his stomach.

               “What happened?” she asked.

               “I’m not sure exactly what you did, but it was an inferno,” he told her, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’ve never seen anything like it, save what that dragon did up there.” There was a long pause as she pulled her way into a sitting position. “I thought you were dead,” he added finally. “No one could survive that.”

               She hesitated. “My…my mother’s family is a line of mages. They specialize in fire magic, and they…did something to ensure that power is passed down through the bloodline. They thought it had skipped me.”

               All at once, he made a decision. “Come on,” he said, scooping her up and carrying her toward the other door. “I’m taking you to my uncle’s in Riverwood, then we’ll go take a carriage from Whiterun to Winterhold. The mages there will know what to do with you.”

               “No!” she cried, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but he was too big, and she still had a lot of growing to do, “I don’t want them finding out I’m still around!” the look of horror on her face as she realized what she had just said aloud told him more than anything else. More than the strange eyes, the slightly pointed ears, or the foreign name.

               “The rumors are true, aren’t they?” he asked quietly, walking through the caverns, “The Thalmor raise half-bloods as spies.”

               There was a long moment of silence. “Usually, they just kill us at birth,” she said, and he took that for an admission.

               “We’ll tell them that you’re a Breton,” he said. “Bretons came from elven ancestry, and some of them still have pointed ears, like yours.”

               “I don’t want to bring attention to myself,” she insisted stubbornly, fear showing plainly in her eyes. “If they find out I have their power now…”

               “Where do you hide an Argonian?” he asked her.

               She sighed. “In Black Marsh with all the other Argonians.”

               “Has this happened before?” he asked reluctantly. “Does it happen…often?”

               “It’s only happened twice,” she replied. “A year ago when…I met my first lecherous old man, and just now. I won’t be able to light so much as a candle for…weeks, probably.”

               Hadvar sighed, “Forgive me if I find that reassuring.” There was another long pause as he traversed the stream they were walking along. Eventually, he put her down so that they could sneak passed a bear. Soon after, the light started to get stronger, and they reached the mouth of the cave.

               “I thought I’d never see that again,” she commented, looking up at the bright hole to Aetherius that dominated the daytime sky.

               “Will they recognize your name?” Hadvar asked. “The Thalmor, I mean.”

               “No. I don’t have a name,” she replied. “Not really.”

               “You told me your name was Noyoki,” he frowned.

               “Of course. It means ‘no name,’ or ‘unknown,’” she informed him, walking unsteadily down the path.

               Hadvar watched her for a long moment, this strange girl caught halfway between child and woman who was so frighteningly powerful. A cry echoed through the mountains, and he crouched as the Black Dragon flew overhead, roaring his supremacy to the world. The girl remained standing, shoulders back and hair drifting in the light wind like a bloody banner, watching. For a moment, she reminded him of the dragon, somehow, but that thought was so ridiculous he rejected it instantly.

               “I don’t think he’ll be coming back this way,” she told him calmly. “He’s made his point.”

               “And his point was?” Hadvar asked, suppressing a shiver.

               She gazed at him levelly. “That he exists, of course. Dragons were gone, but now one is back. And there was nothing even an entire town full of soldiers could do to stop him. The mightiest men of two armies were at Helgen, but they were all helpless before him. This wasn’t a random attack; he was making a statement.”

               “So dragons are back?” he asked, even though that was obvious.

               “Where there is one there could be more,” she replied meditatively.

               “This doesn’t seem to bother you  very much,” he noted acidly. “The return of the dragons is supposed to mean the end of days.”

               Noyoki actually laughed. The sound was surprisingly childlike and light. “Well, then I guess we’ll get a whole new world to explore. If it happens.”

               “Off into the unknown then,” he groused. “Reckless child; doesn’t the thought of death bother you?”

               “I already died, as far everyone else is concerned. Sometimes things need to die in order to live.”

               That stopped him, making him look at her anew. No; definitely not a child. He wasn’t sure she had ever been one. “I suppose.”

               She smiled at him, and it took him more by surprise than anything else she had said. “It’s strange; I feel like I just woke up. I was all ready to let them kill me, and I didn’t do anything to stop them. I wanted it to happen, wanted to stop running. But now…now I feel like I might actually find whatever it was I kept searching for.”

               “And what’s that?” he asked, glancing down at her as they walked side-by-side down the path.

               “I’m not sure, exactly. I can’t put a name to it. It’s…I don’t know. But it’s good.”

               “Another unknown. They’re piling up,” he pointed out, grousing.

               “Are you going to be this cheerful all the way to Winterhold? Because I can find my way myself,” she said, hopping over a rock and startling up a rabbit.

               “Everything that just happened and now you’re suddenly cheerful. Are you insane?”

               “We’re alive. Isn’t that something to be happy about?” Noyoki pointed out.

               Hadvar sighed. “Yes, it is.”

               Noyoki shook her head, smiling a bit. The sun beat down on her with warm benevolence, and the gloom that had pervaded her for so long was gone as if it had never been. She had survived, and she would continue to survive, until she found whatever it was she was looking for.

               And nothing, Dragon, man, or mer, was going to stand in her way.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to my Dragon Kin series. Eventually, Noyoki will adopt the name Ysmir, Dragon of the North. But that's another story altogether.


End file.
